“What shall we do, father?”
“Do? We must all set out in search of Max, and bring him back. In my anger, Ken, I have done a brutal thing.”
“But you did not mean it, father.”
“How could he know that? See if he has taken his luggage. No, no; impossible! The poor lad has wandered right away into the mountains, and I am to blame. Get the ponies, Kenneth; we may do better mounted. I suppose,” he added bitterly, “we may use them for the present.”
Kenneth darted out of the room, met Tavish and Long Shon, and in a very few minutes the two sturdy little ponies were in the old courtyard, The Mackhai and his son mounting, and the little party starting off at once.
Before they had gone far, The Mackhai turned his head.
“Where is that boy?” he said.
No one replied, for Scood had not been seen to leave, but from where he was seated Kenneth could just see a tuft of wool sticking up above the heather, and he pressed the sides of his pony and cantered back to where the boy lay upon his face in a hollow, with his bonnet tilted on to the back of his head.
“Here, Scoody! What are you doing there?” cried Kenneth.
“Naething.”